


the days of our lives

by realmsoffreedom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19272793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmsoffreedom/pseuds/realmsoffreedom
Summary: merlin and arthur have been together for almost three years. this is their story.or, a series of oneshots detailing, quite literally, the days of their lives.





	the days of our lives

**Author's Note:**

> didn't take me long to come back here, eh? so many of you enjoyed the oneshot i posted a few weeks ago, and i was so awed by that. thank you so much.
> 
> i've been wanting to do this for a while now. i see series' like these a lot, and i've always wanted to write my own, where, the relationship is established and the stories follow obstacles they deal with together, rather than doing a 'get together' story like i have in the past (different fandoms, but eh, i digress). although, i am working on a multi chapter 'getting together' fic in honor of pride month, that will be up before the month is over.
> 
> this first story is a little description-heavy. i tried to set up a lot of plot through that, so, hopefully, you guys get answers to every question about this series. if you do want to know anything that i wasn't clear about, however, feel free to ask! i didn't want to do a big infodump at the beginning, so i thought this would work best.
> 
> and finally, trigger warnings for anxiety and panic attacks in this particular oneshot. it does get pretty heavy toward the end, so proceed with caution.
> 
> i hope y'all enjoy!! i'd love to hear what you thought at the end! 
> 
> (yes the title is a friends reference i could not help myself ok don't judge me)

Merlin’s class ends late.

And really, it’s not so much that it _ends_ late, as that it is ‘CJ was asking such insightful and intelligent questions and he couldn’t cut her off without giving her equally eloquent answers, regardless of how much it would throw off his schedule”.

He plans these days. Carefully, and down to a T. There’s a constantly working model of how the day’s going to go - and leave him as least anxious as possible - in his head, and every slip, every deviation from diligence, has his body inviting the belligerence through its back door.

“Sorry, class ran late,” he mutters, as he shuts the front door behind him. “If we just leave a half hour later, I can-“

“No need.” Arthur meets him in the kitchen and motions to the suitcase he’s just parked at their feet, backpack resting precariously on top. “Unlike you, _I_ decided to play it smart and take the week off, so I had time to pack your carry on too.”

Merlin exhales, long and heavy, and closes his eyes. _Breathe. Take a breath. Breathe_. Arthur’s hands grip his waist and slide upward, palm the small of his back and stay there. He leans in to peck Arthur’s lips and then draws in another deep breath. “Did you remember my-”

“Papers, yes,” Arthur replies. Merlin takes a step forward and tucks himself in against Arthur’s body, slots his head under his boyfriend’s chin and wraps his arms around his waist. He can practically hear the eye-roll in Arthur’s voice, at his next words, “although why you _insist_ on working on this trip still baffles me.” 

“I’m not working on the _trip_ , I’m working on our flight,” Merlin retorts. He lifts his head and raises an eyebrow, “spending those eight damn hours being _productive_ , instead of watching whatever crap movies they have and falling asleep. Besides, I promised my students I’d have their papers back to them ’soon as I’m back.”

Teaching Pride and Prejudice again – and reading it for probably the hundredth time – has felt renewing. It’s a comfy chair to sink into, douse himself in waves of social hierarchy and classism, the hollows and intricacies of Elizabeth and Darcy’s ever-so-turbulent love story. He’s lost himself in the pages many a time, found his place in the unchanging melody that brings Austen’s words to life, the fresh air that’s breathed into them every time they’re read, alive long after their release, timeless. 

He remembers every single time he’s read this book, all the way back to skimming SparkNotes the night before a quiz, back when the world was disposable and he couldn’t find the will to care about anything, to college, writing his master’s thesis, the summer before he started his PhD, and finally, most recently, just two months ago. 

He started his fifth reread the morning after he and Arthur had moved into their own flat together, woken up by the birds and unable to cozy back up in the throes of sleep, but unwilling to leave Arthur’s side on their first morning in _their_ apartment, nursing a mug of coffee as he turned the pages. 

Arthur snored and he read, one hand resting against his boyfriend’s warm back, fingers travelling ever-so-gently upward, into the hair on the nape of Arthur’s neck. Barely pushing seven in the morning, the world was still soft and pliant in his hands, malleable against any malady that surfaced, soft, open, _warm_. 

Everything felt _warm_.

“You work too hard,” Arthur chides, with another peck against his cheek. 

“I’m sure I do, _Doctor_ Pendragon,” he retorts easily. 

“Yes, _doctor_ , who took an entire week off work for this.”

“To go with Morgana to her last dress fitting and spend hours having your opinion on flowers ignored? Riveting way to spend your time, really. Now me, I’d rather be lecturing and getting to discuss-”

“Pride and Prejudice for the fiftieth time?” Arthur rolls his eyes and reaches over to slide Merlin’s bag off his shoulder. “Christ, Merlin, don’t you ever get tired of reading that book? This is, what, your-”

“ _Fifth_ time reading it, thanks very much.” 

“And you’re going to happily mark thirty papers about the bloody detail of it, aren’t you?” Arthur is shaking his head, but Merlin can see the hint of a smile on his face. “I’m dating such a _nerd_.”

“Every third book in this flat is one of your anatomy textbooks, and you rewrote _all_ of them, studying for your boards,” Merlin deadpans. “I daresay I’m dating a bigger one.”

As Arthur gears up with his own stinging retort, Merlin pulls his phone out of his pocket and powers it on. He feels the slam against his chest cavity, the sound of his heart jolting and startling into action, placing itself amongst well-known anxieties and absorbing every last bit. “We’re so late, oh my god!”

“They say three hours ahead because airport staff get shits and giggles off watching us poor souls mill around aimlessly when we’re offensively early for our flight,” Arthur says. “We’ve still got almost four hours until the plane takes off, love. I promise you, we’re okay.”

“I still need to make sure-” His heart is hammering in his chest and his limbs are starting to feel shaky. The extra injection of expectation is finally starting to hit, slam into him full force and remind with its not-so-gentle touch, _you’re about to get on a plane. You’re about to get on a plane and fly eight hours to another country. This is happening. It’s all happening_. “Fuck.”

“Relax, _Mer_ lin. You don’t needa double-check. I know I got everything. Even your Xanax.”

“Why’d you pack that?” He widens the space between their bodies and raises an eyebrow. The panic is starting to dissipate, fade as quickly as it came. It exists in short spurts, spikes upward and then dips, contesting with the contents of his stomach, desperate to dislodge them from where they’re meant to stay. 

He’s sick and tired and shaky already, but that doesn’t mean Arthur needs to know. That doesn’t mean he needs to sign himself up for the barrage of brooding, _are you okay? Can I help with that? Don’t strain yourself, Merlin, I’ve got it_. Arthur’s sweet, but overly scrupulous at the very least, when he gets panicky, and it’s a curtain Merlin doesn’t want to breach unless absolutely necessary. “I’m not taking it anymore.”

“In case you have a panic attack on the flight.”

“Arthur-”

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is firm. “We’re not discussing this. It’s packed, okay? Let it go.”

“I’m thirty one years old, Arthur,” he snaps. “I don’t need my boyfriend making decisions for me.”

“You did, last time.” Arthur’s voice is firm, wrought with every last bit of heaviness that seeps from his words. “When you were fucking _blue_ from lack of oxygen and I almost had to run you to A&E.” He pauses, and Merlin hears him inhale. “I told myself I’d never feel that powerless again. And I won’t.”

…

Their worlds lapse into silence.

Changing into comfortable enough clothes for flying, packing the last of the necessities, picking up around the flat – his mum would be thrilled at that particular habit of hers he’s picked up, honestly – unplugging appliances, closing doors, making sure Arthur hasn’t left any sopping wet towels on the floor or half-eaten plates around the apartment – Merlin’s still working on that. On the part of Arthur that was nannied and butler’d to adulthood, working to help him unlearn the facets of his previously lavish lifestyle and accustom to being responsible for himself and his every human tendency – wrapping up all their loose ends before they leave home for two weeks.

Morgana’s wedding better be worth all of this. 

Worth the past week of anxieties, losing his breath on the way to class, sleepless nights that ended in three am regurgitations – he’s grown all-too-familiar with the taste of stomach acid and Arthur’s confusion at his constantly minty breath – worth the shaking and ruminating and trying, to attribute his worries to irrationalities, _the plane won’t crash. Nothing will go wrong. It’ll be fine. Everything is going to be okay_ – worth the panic that’s interrupting his paradigm of peace-

Worth the argument he just had with Arthur, and the uncertain aftermath he’s sure won’t be pleasant to endure for this eight-hour flight. 

The silent treatment is nothing new. Arthur’s told him before; his method of dealing with emotion is to close off, shut down, put a pin in the imminent subject and come back to it once he’s handled himself adequately enough. _It’s what keeps me from yelling at you_ , Arthur told him once, and went on to detail how his father got when he was angry and the lengthy tree of fear it cultivated inside his son. 

The last time was scary. Thinking back to it sends him shaky, brings back the flutter in his chest and reawakens pieces of that long-buried anxiety. The thing that actually made him panic was small, in the grand scheme of things, but it spiraled into something so much bigger. It always happens like that. 

He makes mountains out of molehills and damns himself to the pitfalls of premonition, preconceived notions about life and love and everything imagined. False realities become fantasies because he runs on overdrive and can’t find a way out of his own personal hive mind. 

His anxiety has existed for about as long as he can remember. It’s definitely gotten better in the past few years, quelled to a manageable level once he left Ealdor, exorcised that part of his past and packaged it into the hollow landscape of past trauma, away from prying eyes and the thought of reliving. It’s better than it has been. It’s better than it was when he met Arthur, when he couldn’t get out a full sentence without stuttering and every interaction left him shaky.

Almost three years later, Arthur is never a surprise. His presence glides so easy around Merlin, seeping into every shaky piece of his existence and filling in the gaps. Arthur is warm, muscled arms and a strong chest to lean into, a body that winds itself around Merlin’s and cocoons him in, _you’re safe here, love. We’ll get through this together_.

He swallows and grips the edge of Arthur’s pillow. Liquid is gathering in his eyes and blurring the edges of his vision. He lifts the cushion to his face and closes his eyes, breathes in against the fabric, against the embodiment of Arthur that wafts from the material, _safe. Breathe_. 

Arthur’s worn the same cologne since Merlin met him, the same Tom Ford scent that costs almost £100 a bottle and barely lasts him three months. He shells out almost £500 a year, simply, on fragrance. It’s the last remnant of the posh in him, the one overpriced luxury he can’t compromise on. Arthur reheats leftovers and eats food from Tupperware and just the other day, found a way to repurpose their discarded loo rolls, but his cologne, the same scent he’s used since college, is too him to ever get rid of.

Merlin prefers it that way. Black Orchid is just _Arthur_ , beyond anything else. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s smelt it out in public and instinctively looked for his boyfriend. That scent is just _him_ , wrapped into every note of the accord and meshed together as one. 

He’s sniffing Arthur’s pillow and breathing it in and wishing he could take the last hour back, wishing it was Arthur’s body giving off that smell, wrapping around him and kissing against his jaw like he always does, squeezing him around the chest and then moving his hands further and further down his waist, all the while layering kisses past his jawline and onto his neck. 

He inhales, the air sharp and stabbing against the back of his throat. That could’ve been the reality. Arthur could be draped over him right now, kissing his neck and calming all his pre-plane panic.

If only he weren’t such an idiot. 

He forces down another swallow and glances over at the digital clock, squeezes his eyes shut as the lump in his throat throbs. They’re nearing three hours until their flight leaves. There’s no more time to waste. 

They’ve had fights before. Of course they have. This isn’t the first and it absolutely won’t be the last. Tensions are high; he knows how on-edge Arthur’s been about Morgana’s wedding. His worries begin and end at the flight. Arthur’s extend and swell with millions of what-ifs, countless ways everything could go up in flames, and the potential catastrophe he’d have to colonize, in the aftermath. 

He’s teaching three courses and trying to make headway on the research he’s meant to publish within the year. Arthur is knee deep in his own research in hopes of starting a clinical trial for a new type of prosthetic limbs. Nothing is level, right now. They’re doing the best with what they have. 

It just has to get them through the next two weeks. It just has to be enough for that. 

…

He unplugs the last lamp in their bedroom and then makes his way out, shuts the door behind him and turns to glance over the rest of the apartment. 

Their two massive suitcases are sitting by the front door, and his carry on – the backpack Arthur packed for him – is perched on top. The kitchen counter is clean, the couch cushions have been straightened, and every single post it note on their ‘reminder’ board has been slashed through with a check – and a smiley face Arthur _insists_ on adding. 

Arthur really thought of everything. 

He bites his lip and walks over to their luggage, and, just as he’s slipping the backpack on, Arthur exits their shared ‘office’, carry-on in hand. He’s tapping something out on his phone as he walks, straight to the fridge, where he grabs a bottle of water and slips it into one of the side pockets of his bag. 

This is where Merlin would usually make a joke about Arthur being flagged down by security, nudge his shoulder and predict the incident with a grin. And Arthur would roll his eyes and mime a pout, keep his lips there until Merlin kissed them back into a smile. Arthur would shift around everything in his hands to leave one free, and Merlin’s fingers would slip into his, instinctually. No question about it. They were meant to be there. 

Arthur doesn’t meet his eyes once, while they bring the suitcases into the hall. He takes out his keys and locks the door. Merlin watches him pull up the Uber app on his phone and book the car. 

He bites down on his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in his throat and trying to keep the tears back. It’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be. Arthur’s given him the silent treatment before. He’s been mad at him before. But this has been the week from hell, trying to sort out everything, rearrange his lesson plan to accommodate the two lectures he’s missing in each class, remember the way breathing works and not succumb to the shards of his chest coming loose again, reiterate the irrationality of his thought processes, over and over, until he’s thoroughly spent from the hours of being knocked out by the confines of his own mind. 

He breathes in, short and gasping, and opens his eyes slowly. _This is fine. You’re fine. Breathe_. It isn’t until he moves to take a step forward, that his eyes well back up, as he feels Arthur’s fingers slip into his own. He whips his head around, but Arthur is still not looking back at him.

It’s still silent, as they ride the elevator down to the lobby and roll their luggage out to the waiting vehicle. Arthur doesn’t look at him once during the thirty-minute car ride. He keeps opening his mouth and closing it, feeling the words travel to the base of his lips and die before they can make their way into the world. Arthur isn’t looking at him, which means he’s still angry, which means it’s not time yet for apologies, which means his entire body is numb, temperature regulation be damned.

Arthur only breaks their grip when they’re checking in, speaks politely to the lady behind the desk as he lifts both suitcases onto the scale and hands her his passport. Merlin barely has time to fumble through his bag for his own, before both their gazes turn to him. His backpack almost falls off his shoulder in its twisted position, and he trips over his feet as they’re walking away. 

His cheeks are hot. He can feel his hoodie dampening with sweat. _Not here. Not now. Please_.

He manages to make it up the escalator and through security without pause, slips in behind Arthur when they get in line and unloads his bag onto the conveyor belt with shaking hands. Arthur waits as he sits to tie his shoes, once they’re through, and reaches for his hand again, heading in the direction of their gate. 

He slumps down in the first empty chair he sees, eons away from another human being – there are maybe ten other people at the gate, and still two hours of time to waste, until their flight takes off – and rubs a hand over his face, pulling in another long breath. 

“Tell me, if you ever feel like I’m being too controlling, okay?” 

Merlin’s heart thuds, loud and painful. He stares at Arthur, finally, _finally_ getting his eyes. “Arthur, I-”

“I never want you to feel like that,” Arthur continues. He reaches for Merlin’s hands and squeezes them both in his own, gaze never wavering. “Like I’m making all the decisions or having all the control, I just-” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “You know what my father was like. I never want to be like that, I can’t – I can’t be like him. Especially not with you.”

“Arthur, no!” His hands are still shaking, now, less from the anxiety, embroiled in intensity, _Arthur. Arthur. Arthur_. “You were – you are just looking out for me. Making sure I don’t do something stupid and fuck everything up for myself. It’s not control, it’s concern.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“ _I’m_ sorry!” Merlin exclaims. “You were trying to take care of me and I snapped at you.”

“Can we just call it even, then?” Arthur ventures, gaze travelling down to their joined hands. “I hate arguing with you.”

His chest swells, tendrils of relief battering their way through all the tents of tension, replacing the restlessness and settling at the base of his stomach easily. He closes his eyes and breathes in, smelling more and more of Black Orchid as Arthur moves forward to meet him. Arms slide up and around his chest, pulling him in, and he rests his own hands on Arthur’s shoulders. 

The kiss feels like their first. If Merlin thinks hard enough, he can place himself back at that exact day. They were going out that tonight, but Arthur’s shift had run late. He made the trek to the hospital and was easily waved back to the imaging room – _he’s been staring at those image screens for three hours now_ , Gwen had told him, _rescue him. Please_ – where Arthur was studying beginning X-Rays for the clinical trial he’s still working on. 

And Merlin remembers that day, clearer than anything. He remembers Arthur only noticing his presence when he’d voiced it, dismissing his subsequent apology and sliding into a neighboring chair, asking about the plans and potential for the next few months. 

He remembers the light in Arthur’s eyes. The way he began tripping over his words in his haste to get them out, as he clicked through files and gesticulated to different parts of each image. His messy hair and the lab coat strewn over the back of his chair, pens sticking out of his (wrinkled) scrub top pocket. Everything about him screamed, ‘sloppy’. 

And their first kiss had happened right there and then, unprimed or precedented, post-date.

“Don’t drug me,” he mumbles, when they’ve broken apart and his forehead is pushed against Arthur’s shoulder. He’s breathing, long and heavy, into Arthur’s shirt, leaning into his body. “Please. I know I get- I know they can be bad. But- I _hate_ how I feel on those pills, okay, _please_ , even if I have a panic attack, unless I’m on the verge of passing out and it’s the last resort, please just-”

“Okay,” Arthur says, warm and soft, fingers ghosting over the small of Merlin’s back. “Okay.”

Arthur was – is – beautiful. And Merlin is in love with him. 

…

Merlin falls asleep.

It’s not a surprise. Arthur’s seen the very obvious panic, the anxiety that’s taken helm and tightened up his movements, curbed any chance of calm, kept him prisoner to mantras and mediations that drip with made up malice. It takes a lot out of him every time, drains his energy to zero and renders him zombie-like for the rest of the day. 

He knows Merlin hasn’t had the greatest week. He knows the anticipatory anxiety all too well. It happens, regardless of his reassurances and reminders to relax. There’s not a lot he can do in these situations, he’s learned. Merlin’s train of tension has already left the station with no interest in stopping. 

He sighs and shifts Merlin’s upper body, jutting his chin out to catch Merlin’s head as it lolls to the other side. Merlin presses his cheek into Arthur’s shoulder, lips brushing the fabric of his shirt. Arthur rolls his eyes, imagining already the darker patch on his sweater that he’ll board the plane with, courtesy of the boy in his arms. He can’t help but smile, lean down and kiss Merlin’s hair, stroke his cheek and hold him tighter. 

He hopes – wishes – he could carry Merlin through the gate and into the plane, keep him asleep past take off and avoid the imminent catastrophe. Merlin’s never done well with heights, and planes, turbulence, and the like multiply it by thousands. 

Their flight is boarding in five minutes. He has no choice.

He shakes Merlin’s shoulder for a few seconds and soon feels his boyfriend come back to life in his arms, stretch against his chest and then curl back up and pillow his cheek on Arthur’s shirt once more. “Hm?”

“We’re about to board, love,” Arthur says. “Sorry.”

If this groggy, lethargic, half-sleep state can last until they’re in their seats, if Merlin can just fall back asleep and stay knocked out for the majority of the flight, if things don’t snowball into another experience for the books, the next item on their ‘incidents we don’t talk about’ list…

If only the universe was that kind to them.

Merlin tenses against him as they get into line. Arthur intertwines their fingers and squeezes. Merlin’s palm feels clammy against his, slick with sweat and damp against his hand. He winces and brings their joined hands up to his lips.

The process of the next few minutes blurs by. He doesn’t register giving his boarding pass to the attendant, couldn’t tell anyone what she says to him, ignores the noise around him as he follows Merlin into the tunnel and onto the aircraft. 

He breathes in, long and heavy, and blows out the breath in relief, as they approach their seats. It’s a fairly big plane, and they’ve been lucky enough to secure a row of just two seats on the left side. They’re fairly close to the loos, and away from the chaos separating first and economy class. Morgana wanted to fly them out first class, but he refused. He hasn’t been on a first class plane since moving in with Merlin – the luxury makes Merlin uncomfortable. Arthur’s never understood it but he’s seen it trigger Merlin’s anxiety in a bad way – and it hasn’t been nearly the worst thing in the world. A little smaller, a little less legroom, but nothing unbearable. 

“You okay?” 

“Fine,” Merlin manages. His eyes are on the seats and the window below. “Can I sit next to the window?”

“You don’t wanna be on the aisle?” He asks. “More room?”

“More people staring,” Merlin corrects stiffly. “I’m okay. You’ll let me out when I havta piss, won’t you?” 

He doesn’t wait for a response, before he steps into the row and sits down. Arthur can see his hands shaking as he slides his backpack under the seat in front. His own heart is thudding nervously, pounding rapidly against his chest. It feels like he’s living in limbo, existing in a vacuum that shuts him off from everything happening around him. 

They just need to get through this flight. Just need to survive these eight hours. And once they’ve taken off, he can set Merlin up with a rerun of Doctor Who and tuck him under his arm and (hope) he gets to sleep for the majority of it. 

They fasten their seatbelts – Arthur’s heart pangs at the sight of Merlin struggling with his, hands shaking far too much to connect the two pieces easily – and he keeps his hand tightly clasped with Merlin’s, squeezing every few seconds in hopes of calming the other boy’s trembling. 

“Love you,” Arthur whispers. He turns his head to place a kiss against the side of Merlin’s head, as the engine roars to life. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”

…

He is not okay.

He is not okay nothing about this is okay he cannot breathe how is this allowed how do people do this so often fly back and forth every fucking week he can’t do this not for another minute how is this a thing how does this happen how are they okay with this how is _Arthur_ okay with this it’s gonna crash they’re gonna die _we’re all gonna die in the middle of the ocean and everyone’s gonna forget about us please no no no_ -

 _Stupid fucking metal tube of death it’s a trap it’s suffocating I can’t do this please I fucking can’t this is too much eight hours on this death tube it’s not going to happen I can’t do it I can’t breathe_ \- 

Everything is happening too fast. His mind is racing. It feels like his head is spinning, stuffed full of rocks and turning 360 degrees as rapidly as humanely possible. He can’t control anything. His vision is blurry and everything sounds too far away. Arthur is talking to him – he can feel their joined hands and hear the muffled sounds of his boyfriend’s voice, but it all sounds unreachable. The panic weighs too much. It’s dragging him underwater with it.

His chest heaves. He draws in a desperate gulp of air, but it feels sharp, jaggedly travelling through his body, diminishing as quickly as it came. There’s a finite amount of air trapped in this death tube, and everyone else is stealing it. There’s nothing left. Nothing for him. There’s no air left. He can’t breathe. 

Every time he tries, he comes up coughing, choking on gasps of oxygen that hit him so hard in the back of the throat that they burn, smolder what’s left of his already fragmented chest on the way down, and set everything on fire. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He doesn’t know anything. Breathing hurts and his vision is blurry and he can’t hear anything anymore. Arthur’s body is rock solid and too heavy against his own. It’s too much. Everything is too much. He doesn’t know what to do.

He’s going to die here. Trapped in this fucking metal tube of death, unable to remember his last moments and concentrate on the one person who’s made this turbulent existence some semblance of satisfying. He’s going to die here. He’s going to die.

“…lin…”

He looks up and tries to focus on the blurry not-Arthur, but everything is moving too fast and it won’t stop and he can’t slow down time long enough to concentrate he cant’ concentrate he can’t- 

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is becoming clearer, now. He still can’t see him very well, but he doesn’t sound underwater any more. “Can you hear me?”

He moves his head in what he hopes is a nod, and blinks rapidly. “C-Can’t…bre-brea-”

“It’s okay.” Arthur’s voice is soft. “You don’t have to talk. Can I touch you?”

Arthur always asks. He’s been with him through the panic attacks for close to three years now, and he’s asked every time. Merlin isn’t sure why he still does it – his touch is the only one Merlin’s grown to be okay with, in these situations – but Arthur needs his permission before he acts. Always.

He nods again, and it’s then that he feels arms around his chest. His breaths are still coming too short and too fast. His body doesn’t feel like his. He’s floating away from it in some unfathomable tangle of realities, drifting off into an abyss of uncertainty while his form remains below, wracked with all the shakes and shivers and signs of calamity. 

Arthur’s arm is strong against his trembling back. It feels warm. He was hot before, but now everything is going cold. The sweat is traveling down his limbs and across his chest. It’s the same feeling he gets after vomiting, the same out of sorts mess that feels just _uncomfortable_. It’s not right. That’s the only way to describe it. 

He’s moving. He registers being in his seat and then on Arthur’s thighs, shifting in his lap until he can adequately rest his ear against Arthur’s chest. He leans into Arthur’s touch and closes his eyes as Arthur begins to rub between his shoulder blade. Arthur’s heartbeat is thudding against his ear, slow and steady, one thump after another, and he tries to hone in on it. _Breathe. You’re fine. Breathe_. 

“That’s it,” Arthur is saying, soft and close to his ear. “You’re doing so well, love. Just keep going like that. Listen to my heart. Everything’s okay now.”

“Sorry…” he mumbles, after a few minutes of silence. His breathing is as close to normal as it can be, at this point. Everything still feels heavy. Exhaustion is tugging so hard on his bones and it’s taking everything not to succumb. “Didn’t…”

“Don’t apologize.” Arthur’s chest moves as he speaks. Merlin is still listening to his heart. The rest of the world could go down in flames, and he wouldn’t notice. “It’s okay, Merlin. I know you’re tired.”

He doesn’t remember much else. 

He falls asleep to the sound of Arthur’s heart.

…

“Sir, is everything all right?”

“Fine, thank you.” Arthur sends the stewardess a warm smile. They’ve just turned the seatbelt sign off, so his actions – yanking the arm between their seats up and pulling Merlin to sleep on his lap – aren’t in danger of being reprimanded any more. 

“He’s okay?” She motions to Merlin, lip pulled between her teeth. “That looked bad.”

“It was,” he sighs. “He’s terrified of flying. It’s only gotten worse over the years, honestly. But he’ll be okay once we land.”

“Of course, of course,” she says quickly. “Press the button above your head if you need anything; we have barf bags and I always bring some Dramamine, just in case…”

“Thank you.” Arthur brushes a hand over Merlin’s back and glances back up at her. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll let him know, once he wakes up.”

She nods, shooting him a smile of her own as she makes her way back to the front of the plane. Arthur shifts in his seat, moving his arm further around Merlin, and pulls his other one free. He – albeit awkwardly, due to the use of only one hand – pulls out the airline’s complimentary headphones and plugs them in.

He taps through the screens on the device in front of him, inevitably lands on Doctor Who – Merlin’s favorite, obviously – and settles back in his seat as David Tennant shows up on his screen, carding his fingers through Merlin’s hair as he watches. 

The worst is over. He’ll convince Merlin to take the Xanax, on the way home. It’s only smooth sailing from here. 

… _until tomorrow_ , he thinks.

A man of honor’s – Morgana’s always gone far against the grain – duties have only just begun.


End file.
